


A Rescuer, Rescued

by AnonymousDandelion



Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has Self-Preservation Issues (Good Omens), Blood and Injury (non-graphic), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Worth Issues, flufftober outtake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26781028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousDandelion/pseuds/AnonymousDandelion
Summary: Aziraphale knows that superficial bleeding is unsightly, and uncomfortable, and usually easy enough to fix. It’s only a minor miracle.He still doesn’t like blood.And he doesn’t like healing himself. Doing it for others is one thing. For himself, though… he can never quite shake the feeling of frivolity, wasting a miracle on his own corporation.~ ~ ~Aziraphale answered a prayer for help and stopped some bad things from happening, but he didn't escape unscathed. Luckily, his demon shows up to take care of him (and to scold him for not taking care of himself).
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 195
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Flufftober 2020, Flufftober2020, Hurt Aziraphale





	A Rescuer, Rescued

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: This story was an accident. I started writing it for Day 4 of my [Ineffable Flufftober 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957708) set — but then my hand slipped and it ended up six times too long, not to mention not so very fluffy. So instead, here it is a short standalone story, and I had to write something else for Flufftober. Whoops.
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the result!
> 
> Slight CW: As indicated in the tags, the story is premised on an injury (the writing prompt was "Wounded"), and there is repeated mention of blood. Nothing even remotely graphic, and it all gets fixed! But as always, take care of yourself.

Aziraphale has never liked blood. Not since that dreadful day when Abel died, when Aziraphale first witnessed just how much the human body is capable of bleeding.

Angel corporations bleed, too.

The girl whose terrified prayer called him here, to a part of the city he usually avoids, is gone now, headed for home under the protection of a miracle to see that she arrives there safely. Her assailants are gone, too, with no more idea how they ended up in police custody than they have any idea from where the middle-aged man came who suddenly appeared in an alley they thought empty. The group of young men will, Aziraphale very much hopes, reconsider their life choices, although he is not as optimistic as he would like to be about the odds.

In any case, they are all gone now — girl, assailants, police — all of them persuaded not to notice that one of the young men’s knives found a mark, if inadvertently, when Aziraphale first materialized in the alley in answer to the desperate cry for help.

Aziraphale has had enough experience that he knows how to deal with injuries. He knows that superficial bleeding is unsightly, and uncomfortable, and usually easy enough to fix. It’s only a minor miracle, a simple matter of cleaning the wound, sealing the skin over, erasing any remaining marks.

He still doesn’t like blood.

And he doesn’t like healing himself. Healing others is one thing, and he seldom hesitates to do it. For himself, though… he can never quite shake the feeling of frivolity, wasting a miracle on his own corporation, when he should have been careful enough to simply avoid injury in the first place.

“Aziraphale? What happened? What are you doing in this area? How long have you been here?”

Aziraphale jumps and turns, feeling the gash on his hip protest. He should really just pull himself together and fix it, he knows — or else go home to tend to it and let it heal the biological way. One way or another, he should do _something_. “Crowley,” he offers by way of greeting.

The demon frowns, the expression visible even behind the sunglasses, and comes closer. “What happened?” he repeats. Then his face tightens. “Are you hurt? You’re hurt. Who hurt you?”

Aziraphale winces. “The police have them. It’s all right, Crowley. Don’t worry. Their intended victim is safe and sound.”

Crowley exhales sharply, sounding annoyed. “I have no doubt whatsoever you made certain whatever helpless innocent you came to the rescue of is perfectly fine. I’m not worried about them. I’m worried about _you_ , Aziraphale.”

Oh. Right. “It’s not too bad,” Aziraphale assures him. “It wasn’t even an intentional attack, just a matter of careless teleportation. My fault entirely. I can… it will heal up soon enough, as long as I rest it. I should just get back to the bookshop and…”

The world spins briefly, and it occurs to Aziraphale that he may have been bleeding a bit more than he quite realized. He clutches at the alley wall. How long _has_ he been here, leaning against this wall, since the humans left?

“Aziraphale!” Suddenly, Crowley’s hand is on Aziraphale’s arm, his face swimming into view and looking as if the demon is, indeed, worried. His grip is steady and grounding. Aziraphale lets himself lean on Crowley, just a bit. After a moment, the world re-stabilizes around him.

“Sit _down_ ,” Crowley snaps.

“There’s nowhere to sit,” Aziraphale tells him. It’s true. The alley is littered with enough broken glass and other best-left-unspecified debris that he’s certainly not going to risk sitting down on the bare ground. He supposes he might have summoned a seat from the bookshop, of course, but that didn’t occur to him before. Besides, he wouldn’t have wanted to stain one of his beautiful, well-kept tartan armchairs.

“Gah, angel.” Crowley does a different kind of snap — with his fingers, this time. They land in the bookshop. Aziraphale staggers, momentarily disoriented, and by the time he regains his bearings he finds he’s been pushed down into a chair.

He frowns, and tries to stand up. “I’ll get blood on the cushions, Crowley.”

Crowley rests a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, gently but firmly keeping him seated. “You already have, so you might as well stay there now.”

“But…”

Crowley glares down at him. “I’ll clean it up later! Will you stop worrying about the chair for one _moment_ , Aziraphale? You’re hurt. Why didn’t you heal this?”

“It wasn’t necessary. I told you, it’s not that bad.”

“What does that even mean?” Crowley demands. “Looks plenty bad to me. It doesn’t have to discorporate you to be bad enough to be worth fixing. You didn’t even bother to try, did you?"

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Apparently, Crowley takes that as a sufficient answer in and of itself, because the demon groans. “You’re going to be the death of me. No, death of yourself. Discorporation of yourself. Whatever. You need to learn to take care of yourself, you know. I might not always be in the area.”

He makes as if to lift a hand, then hesitates. “May I?”

Aziraphale knows what the demon is asking, of course. He sighs. He really doesn’t like blood, and he doesn’t like bleeding, and while he doesn’t like wasting miracles to heal himself and he does feel a bit guilty at the thought of _Crowley_ spending energy on healing him either, the demon can of course make his own decisions and use his miracles however he sees fit. And despite Aziraphale’s best efforts at reassurance, the demon still looks tense and upset. If it will help him feel better…

“If you like,” Aziraphale concedes.

Crowley huffs, but doesn’t say anything else, just extends his hand to cup the air a millimeter away from Aziraphale’s hip.

There’s no actual, physical, skin-to-skin contact. Not quite. But the healing almost-touch is still warm and soft and soothing (if a bit ticklish), and Aziraphale is reminded of the fact that, demon or no, Crowley has several hundred years of practice performing blessings and benedictions.

Crowley lowers his hand, and despite himself, Aziraphale sighs again — whether in relief or disappointment, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t need to look, though, to see that his skin is smooth and whole and clear of blood, no trace of the wound remaining.

He meets Crowley’s eyes, as best he can through the sunglasses, and smiles. “Thank you, dear boy. It wasn’t necessary” — Crowley opens his mouth, and Aziraphale hurries on before the demon has a chance to argue — “but I do appreciate the assistance. And I must admit, I _am_ feeling much better.”

He takes pleasure in seeing Crowley relax even as the demon complains, “Don’t thank me. Just try to have some sense and spare a modicum of concern for yourself, next time you answer a spiritual SOS. Or whatever it is you do.”

Aziraphale sighs a third time. Again, he thinks, if the assurance will help Crowley feel better… “I’ll try,” he says, and for the moment he means it, though it remains to be seen whether he’ll remember his promise if or when he ends up in a situation like this one again.

For now, he smiles at Crowley, and Crowley smiles back, and Aziraphale feels whole and well in more ways than one.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! As usual, I would absolutely love to see any thoughts you may have to share in the comments; it's always lovely to hear that my writing-into-the-void found a reader. :)


End file.
